Pheromonal: One Night With the Alpha-Chapter 59: All Questions, No Answers

"Are you a murder magnet?" Penelope mutters, studying the scribbled flow chart I’ve created.

"I don’t know. Maybe." I rub between my eyes with a groan, the tension building behind my forehead. "Has Logan responded to your texts yet?"

Penelope glances at her phone. "Nope. Radio silence."

The lack of communication from Logan only amplifies my unease. "I need to know what they found inside the Fernsby Mansion. This waiting is killing me."

Penelope squints at the paper I’ve doodled all over, taking a sip of wine. She’s on her second glass since I’ve been home to explain everything that’s happened. "At this point, we should probably assume the worst."

I nod, my throat tightening. "So, we assume Jonathan Fernsby is dead." My hand trembles slightly as I pick up the pen and scrawl ’WHY?’ next to Fernsby’s name on my makeshift flow chart.

The question looms large. I turn to Penelope, doubt creeping into my voice. "Am I crazy to think this has something to do with the names he gave me?"

Penelope shrugs, a wry smile tugging at the corner of her mouth as she takes another sip. It’s white wine, because she said red just reminds her of blood. "Honey, I’m all aboard the conspiracy train at this point. Nothing seems too far-fetched anymore."

I stare at the flow chart. It’s a tangled web of information, each thread leading to more questions than answers.

"If Fernsby is dead," I muse, "it means whoever’s behind this isn’t afraid to take out high-profile targets. But why? What could be so important that it’s worth risking exposure on this scale? What are they hiding, and what’s their purpose?"

Standing and thinking just leaves my brain stagnant, so I head to the living room to pace.

"The client names, the security upgrades, Scott’s involvement, and now Fernsby. There has to be a connection we’re missing."

Penelope watches me, her eyes following my restless movements. "What about the panther shifter? How does he fit into all this?"

I pause, my hand instinctively going to my neck. "I don’t know. Is he connected, or just a freak incident? There’s the dragon-thing, too."

Penelope hums, twirling a strand of her fiery red hair around her finger. "How does a black panther erase all his tracks without doing anything?"

I shake my head, the memory of my first encounter with the shifter flashing through my mind. "I think he did it when I ran into him the first time, too. I was pretty delirious, though. Logan would know better."

"But how is that even possible?"

Turning, I change the direction of my pacing. "I’ve been wracking my brain trying to figure it out. It doesn’t make sense. Even scent blockers don’t completely obscure a presence. They just mask the supernatural aspect. But if they’re not lying, this is different."

Penelope nods. "It’s like he’s a ghost. No tracks, no scent, no magical residue. Could it be some kind of advanced technology? Or maybe a rare magical ability?"

"I’ve never heard of anything like it. In all my years working with supernatural security, I’ve never encountered a being that could completely erase its presence like this. Can you imagine the nightmare that would be for any company? ’There’s a way for people to obscure their presence so no one knows they’ve ever been around, and we have no idea how to stop it!’"

"Yeah, that doesn’t sound great for business."

My brain just keeps circling the same information I have, leaving me frustrated beyond measure. I flop onto Penelope’s couch with a sigh, grabbing the remote out of habit and turning on the TV.

"Hey, check the news. See if Fernsby’s on it."

My brain perks up with a little bit of hope, and I channel surf aggressively, not remembering which channel it’s on.

But no matter where we check—local news, national news, even the supernatural-focused networks—nothing. Not a single mention of Jonathan Fernsby or any disturbance at his mansion.

Penelope snaps her fingers. "It has to be connected to the case Logan brought to you initially. Those weren’t reported either, right?"

Nodding slowly, I agree, "Right. Nothing on the news."

So, we need to hear from the missing Logan.

But he’s not answering his text messages.

At least I have his number now, taken directly from Penelope’s phone.

"I’m going to head to work. You, try to get some rest and avoid any more murder victims. I’ll see what I can hear with my ear to the ground at the bar, okay?"

* * *

I fall asleep watching the news, waiting in vain for someone to report on anything that happened at the Fernsby estate. My phone remains silent, without a word from Logan or Penelope.

Eventually, a strange sensation stirs me awake, and I sit up on the couch in strange silence.

The TV is off, but I swear I fell asleep watching it.

My heart races, but I don’t know why.

It’s just a bad feeling.

My phone isn’t where I left it on the coffee table. I toss the couch cushions aside, my movements growing frantic. Not there, either.

"Where the hell is it?" I mutter, dropping to my knees to peer under the couch. Just dust bunnies and a forgotten pen.

I push myself up, rubbing my temples. Think, Nicole. When did I last use it?

The kitchen. Of course.

My bare feet pad across the cool tile as I enter the kitchen. I check the counter, open drawers, even peek inside the fridge. No phone.

"This is ridiculous," I groan, frustration building. I need to pee, and this wild goose chase isn’t helping.

In the bathroom, I try to calm my nerves. Penelope’s doors and windows are locked. It isn’t like someone just waltzed in here, turned off the TV while I was asleep, and stole my phone, of all things.

It has to be here somewhere. I’m just panicking for no good reason. Being alone at night has me on edge since Scott’s murder.

As I wash my hands, I catch my reflection in the mirror. Dark circles under my eyes, my glasses are askew, and my hair’s a mess. I look as frazzled as I feel.

As I head back into the living room, calmer and more composed, a deafening crack of thunder rips through the air. I scream, my heart leaping into my throat. The lights flicker and die, plunging me into darkness.

One Mississippi. Two Mississippi.

The lights snap back on. I blink, disoriented. And there, sitting innocently on the couch, is my phone.

What the actual fuck.

I approach the couch as though it might bite, hesitant to touch my phone. It was not there before. So how is it there now?

I’m not alone.

The silence in the apartment is oppressive now, heavy with unseen threats. Trying to stay calm, I head to the kitchen, my instincts screaming danger. The knife block catches my eye. I grab the largest one, its weight oddly comforting in my hand.

With something to defend myself, I finally have the courage to reach out with my other senses. It’s not a skill I use often; normal humans don’t have this skill, and I don’t want to answer any questions. It’s a secret that’s nearly buried. Not even Penelope knows about it.

Years of working with anti-magic security have honed this skill. At first, nothing. Then a presence. Faint, but unmistakable. Coming from Penelope’s room.

My eyes snap open. I turn, slow and deliberate, toward her doorway. My breath catches in my throat.

There, framed by the darkness of Penelope’s room, stands the black panther man. His golden eyes lock onto mine, unblinking.

I scream.

The man who killed Nancy.

And now he’s here, in my best friend’s apartment, staring at me with those disturbing golden eyes.